


Poppies

by reiirae



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Kind of a vent fic, M/M, Mentions of War, Oneshot, it's pretty ambiguous, sads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 04:06:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10654578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reiirae/pseuds/reiirae
Summary: I listened, hoping to hearyour playground voice catching on the wind.





	Poppies

Crimson red petals scatter to the wind, and drop to the rain-saturated ground when the wind dies off. Some stick, or get tangled in the trees and brambles surrounding the small site, whilst others are tossed over in the wind once again when the wind picks back up. It is almost silent – has been most of the day, with the exception of a small group of men appearing to pay their respects. The service is tomorrow anyway – that’s when the area will be filled with hushed voices and quiet tears. 

He’s been crouched before the slab of stone, unmoving, forehead pressed against his knees to try and force the tears to stop sliding down his frozen cheeks. Originally, he had planned to pay his respects and leave, and yet something was stopping him leaving – not like he could place that feeling. When the aforementioned group of men had appeared, he had considered leaving, but eventually found himself sat, leaning against the memorial like a wishbone.

Ironic, that idea. A wishbone. Seems like a hopeful image for such a hopeless reality. A war memorial twice his size. But it works. Because one side has to break, he realises, and it’s always the bigger side that wins. 

Once he hears the men shuffle off, he drags himself up and back to the front. Flurries of red petals fill the sky and flutter across the ground, the bright red disrupting the neutral peacefulness of the surroundings. He searched the memorial for a while, tracing his fingertips across the inscripted name he was looking for. Over and over and over again, as though tracing this man’s name would bring him back, save him, do _something_ that he could never have done for him. It doesn’t. Nothing happens. The sky remains the same, the birds sing quietly in the distance, and the stone between his fingertips stays cold and unfeeling. He turns and blinks, kneeling, barely registering anything but the bright red petals littering the ground. The tears he never shed are frozen in place, whether that be because of the icy wind or the fact he won’t cry here. That wasn’t what the man he’s here for would have ever wanted. 

Before the man had left, he’d clung to him for dear life. Part of him wanted to refuse to let go, convince the man to stay, to come back, to promise him that nothing would happen and he’d come back and everything would be as it was. But he knew better – he couldn’t stop the inevitable. And so he’d let go. Said goodbye. Promised to be right here when the man came back. 

The same man never came back. He did, in a sense. His lifeless body was shipped back over, with consolations sent to his family by military officers. They weren’t exactly sympathetic. It was a rehearsed script, repeated over and over to grieving families. The funeral had been short and sweet – he’d attended, and done very little since. The formal service was tomorrow anyway – for all of them, all the families who lost their sons in the war, all those who’s souls ached with the loss of a loved one. He knew the feeling well. 

Eventually he pulled himself back up straight again, dusting off a stray petal that stuck to his leg. He watches it tumble to the ground, tossed and turned by the wind. He reaches out a hand again, feels the cold stone against his fingertips, and traces the name again. One last time. 

He can’t stay here forever. Things move on. The man wouldn’t have wanted him to spend all this time mourning, grieving. He knew that the other would want him to move on, be happy, enjoy the life he had. Not everyone had such a privilege. He turns away, walks forward a little, turns back. Watches the petals twist and turn in the wind. He finds the name he’s looking for, stares at it, and for a moment he’s silent.

“Goodbye, B.”


End file.
